“You know everything you need to know about a person from the answer to the question, What is your favorite book?”

“It is the secret fear that we are unlovable that isolates us,” the passage goes, “but it is only because we are isolated that we think we are unlovable. Someday, you do not know when, you will be driving down a road. And someday, you do not know when, he, or indeed she, will be there. You will be loved because for the first time in your life, you will truly not be alone. You will have chosen to not be alone.”

“This is what love feels like.
It’s a burning in your chest. A free fall through whooshing air. It’s an itch in your skin which can only be soothed by touching. It’s how you store up every little word and expression and hoard for it later, when you can go through it in your head and look for coded messages. It makes you greedy and jealous and resentful and sad. It makes you hate the person you were born as – a jigsaw with a piece out of place where your heart should be.

…

Can you even love that way, in the real world? When you’re itching and burning and hurting? When all you want to do is scream and kick things and rail against the fact that Avril was born without that thing that I have that makes me love her?
This is what love feels like. It feels hopeless and helpless, like holding on to a slippery rock in a churning sea. And I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
I wouldn’t.”

It’s hard to single out just one book among millions ever written and published since the beginning of time. It’s impossible.
I read Ignorance, too. Didn’t strike me much back then. Maybe I shall pay a revisit soon.